


Someone Of Our Depraved City

by Pradelle



Series: Where The Sun Is Silent [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anonymous Sex, Different First Meeting (kinda), Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, Pining, Pre-Canon, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:27:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26962129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pradelle/pseuds/Pradelle
Summary: It is a wicked little thing, this addiction.A gangrenous limb that needs to be sewn off, a cracked tooth that should be pulled out. And like a patient, he dreads the moment of the first incision. But unlike one that apprehends the pain of the procedure, Will does so because he fears that the expected relief of having this infliction severed from his essence will never come.—“I have a date with the Chesapeake Ripper,” Will says, allowing himself to bask in the forbidden knowledge that no one is aware of how exactly accurate that is.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/The Chesapeake Ripper
Series: Where The Sun Is Silent [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1967542
Comments: 51
Kudos: 183





	Someone Of Our Depraved City

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this tweet: https://twitter.com/_exarite/status/1306228834048466944?s=20
> 
> This was supposed to be 100% porn. It, uh, it became something else. 
> 
> English is not my first language, and I didn't have a beta for this one. Hope you won't find too many mistakes!

_Midway upon the journey of our life_

_I found myself within a forest dark_

_For the straightforward pathway had been lost._

— Inferno, Canto 1

Out of all the feelings Will legitimately expects to arise from this abnormal arrangement, from the sickening shame and repulsion to the inevitable alienation from what little remains of his social life, he does not predict the unnerving sensation of falling.

In many ways, it feels like the ground has collapsed under his feet.

And Will can do nothing but fall. He falls deeper into a burning pit of greed that feeds on his bones, drowns into a sea of despair until the water that fills up his lungs tastes like the sourness of his promised demise. Without anything to keep him steady, he floats into a void of his never-ending appetite for the one thing he should not covet. His very own limbo, shaped by his dangerous insouciance and a raw urge threatening to devour him whole. 

Throughout every rendezvous, the Ripper’s touch on his body is akin to a cruel and sadistic worship, and it makes him fall a little harder, a little deeper.

It makes the aching more intense, too.

The more it happens, the more arduous it becomes to put a stop to it, until it evolves from a fleeting entanglement into a sturdy part of Will’s existence. Not simply a string of occasional happenings that he can fool himself into believing he has no control over, but an extension of his body and mind, venom spreading into his veins and corrupting him from the inside.

It is a wicked little thing, this addiction.

A gangrenous limb that needs to be sewn off, a cracked tooth that should be pulled out. And like a patient, he dreads the moment of the first incision. But unlike one that apprehends the pain of the procedure, Will does so because he fears that the expected relief of having this infliction severed from his essence will never come.

Instead of the deliverance a normal person would feel, Will is terrified that the sensation that might arise from this act is the one of regret. More than being consumed by this fire, he fears the possibility of extinguishing the fragile burning flame that slumbers within him, kept alive by the very act of indulging into the desires he had always been too scared to admit to himself. It burns, protected by two massive piers built out of his cowardice and his craving, the two opposites connected together in an arch keeping the flame safe from the rain.

Very much like an addict would abuse of the deadly substance, inhaling its vapor and letting it be absorbed into his bloodstream, Will cradles the flame between his hands, ignoring the screams from his own treacherous mind imploring him to do the right thing. He should blow out the flame, let it die. Instead, he breathes in the deadly smoke and allows his hands to get burned.

He should have known better.

And if he was always aware of what exactly he was getting himself into, well, Will is happy to feign ignorance a little bit longer.

* * *

The irregular crackle of the radio becomes a road companion long before Will even reaches the meeting point. It gradually evolves into a hiss of static until the signal cuts out for the last time, just as he catches a glimpse of a human structure in the distance.

The woods around him seem to quiet down when he exits the familiar confines of his car, an old duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Whether or not the forest is somehow aware that a bigger predator than Will lurks in the shadows, he is not sure, but he entertains the thought of having the upper hand in this for a moment.

It never lasts long.

In front of him, the house basks in the Ripper’s grim aura. Clad in the blackness of the night, it stands on top of a small incline surrounded by tall pine trees, an imposing shape made of two stories of dark wood and wide windows, giving it a sharp and modern appearance, impersonal and cold. It almost looks like a ghost. It feels like one, too, for Will wonders if the house will vanish if he dares to take his eyes away from it, even for a second.

It does not look abandoned, simply forgotten. What should have been frightening is not, and almost feels like coming back to an old friend.

Will thinks of the ways to greet such a peculiar friend. There is a loaded gun in his car. In the old days, he might have hesitated to bring it with him. Today is not one of these days. It has not been for a long time.

His feet carry him through the path laid by the garden lights, most likely turned on for the occasion. It reminds him of the pathway leading to an ancient temple, and he imagines being led through an alley of ionic columns, wondering how long they will support the roof before leading to its collapse, shattering its strength and balance.

He can almost smell the incense, enhanced by the forest around him, a heavy woody and smoky fragrance with hints of resin, growing stronger as he approaches the inner chamber. There is a ceremony waiting for him, he knows, and with each step, his rationality seems to retreat into the abyss of his subconscious mind.

However he wants to call this, an appointment, a meeting, a _date_ , he remains lucid enough to know that it is insanely dangerous.

They never meet in the same place. Sometimes, he finds himself in what seems to be a vacation house. Once in a while, he can smell the lingering scent of death and he wonders if the Ripper made use of his rightfully acquired title, or if he simply took advantage of a feud of heirs over the house of a recently deceased relative. But the locations always have one thing in common. They stand out of sight, hidden amongst trees, sheltered from prying ears by the heavy coastal wind, or isolated on the edge of a lake with the water as their only neighbor.

As much as the Ripper seems to appreciate the finer things in life, as the various locations are always appealing to the eye in one way or another, Will knows it is more than a caprice for a change of scenery. It is a precaution. If every encounter is similar to a gamble for him, it is just as dangerous for the Ripper. Or at least, he hopes it is. It doesn’t feel fair to be the only one risking something.

Will could easily bring the police with him and put an end to the bloody run of the Chesapeake Ripper. But he won’t. And he suspects the Ripper is fully aware of this. If he wasn’t, Will would already be dead.

He climbs the few steps leading him to the front door, which is unsurprisingly unlocked in more than just a hint of an invitation. He barely hesitates before slipping inside the quiet house, uncovering its foyer leading to a window-lined living space. The whispers of the silence fill the house, and he ambles through the living-room with the serenity of a man who is familiar with the place, despite having never been there before. There is no reason for fear. He is safe, here.

Almost all the furniture is covered by a thin white veil. The fireplace, too, paints the picture of a lonely home with how it is empty of fire, ashes, or even charred logs. It has not been occupied in a long time, for the top of the mantel is covered by the dust that would have enveloped the furniture too, had it been not for the fabric shielding it from the consequences of neglect.

He idly wonders where the owners are. Are they simply out of the country, blissfully unaware of the debauchery that is about to take place in the sanctuary that is their home, or are they already buried underneath the house, their flesh feeding the many scavengers that reside there?

At the top of the wooden stairs is a corridor that leads to a soft, dim light peering from under a door, and suddenly he knows where to go.

The bedroom is nothing like the rest of the house. The bed is uncovered, clean and pristine. A small lamp perched atop the nightstand is turned on, plunging the room into a dim and warm atmosphere, in stark contrast to the cold indifference that reigns in the habitation.

He appreciates the contradiction of a room that looks untouched by time, frozen in an imitation of what it probably once used to be, and yet feels so strikingly alive.

Will knows he has found the altar. The only missing feature is the sacrificial knife cutting out his heart, and he does not know if he is to be the offering or the worshipped. A little bit of both, he muses. The Chesapeake Ripper has always found beauty in contradictions.

The anticipation starts to build up as Will sets the bag on the edge of the bed, the zipper breaking the eerie silence of the room.

He knows the ritual. It could almost be called a routine, now.

In some ways, it feels like reconstructing a crime scene, and the irony is not lost on him. But he is all alone here, and currently the witness of his own infliction and the depravity of his mind. Another notable distinction is that he knows how it ends before it has even started, for it always ends the same way. Him, spread open, taken apart by invisible hands and a faceless and mute lover that takes as much as he gives, and does not stop until Will is certain that his touch is the only thing keeping him alive.

Will reaches inside of the bag for a piece of black fabric that he throws on the bed, his hands then grasping a set of ropes. Unlike the fabric, the ropes are carefully displayed on the sheets. They are not his to decide how they are going to be used.

After undressing, he shoves the clothes into the duffel bag with little care before hiding it underneath the bed. The Ripper’s never liked a mess.

He sits down at the foot of the bed and ties the fabric over his eyes, blindfolding himself. The darkness that covers his eyes is welcomed back almost enthusiastically, and he swallows when he feels the familiar warmth that begins to coil in his belly, an almost Pavlovian reaction to the thought of what this act is a precursor of.

His hands somehow end up on his thighs, and it takes him a few seconds to realize how submissive he must look, blindfolded and naked, eagerly awaiting the touch of hands stronger than his own. The thought of his own vulnerability sends a shot of arousal through his body, and he shivers at the knowledge of what is about to take place. If the fear went away a long time ago, the nervousness never quite did so.

The same anticipation anchors his body to the bed, and he rubs the naked skin of his right thigh with his thumb. The impatience, a somewhat less significant factor, lingers in the back of his mind.

He takes a deep breath.

And waits.

* * *

With nothing left to do, he counts the seconds. He doesn’t know how else to keep his frantic mind occupied, to avoid thinking about the madness of the situation he willingly put himself into all these months ago.

_One hundred and fourteen._

As the sight deprivation is always a part of these encounters, his other senses have learned to thrive. The sheets smell faintly of thyme, and he wonders if it was placed under the pillows to ward off nightmares, or to draw the outlines of his final resting place, assuring passage into whatever comes next after his vision turns white and he takes his last breath.

Downstairs, he hears the front door being pushed open, the ruffling of fabric indicating that a coat is being taken off and then, only then, the footsteps growing in intensity as they climb up the stairs. Will straightens up, trying to assume a more elegant position. The Ripper always shows up mere minutes after Will has settled in. _He must know_ , he thinks. _He always knows_.

_One hundred and twenty-seven._

The footsteps seem to stop in front of the bedroom door, and Will draws a sharp breath at the sound of the handle being turned.

 _One hundred and thirty-three._

The door creaks open, and his doubts evaporate.

They always do.

* * *

Like every time, the Ripper takes him apart, then puts him back together with a disturbingly surgical precision.

Will never asks for anything, yet the Ripper always seems to know the exact nature of his craving. They never kiss. He never touches the Ripper beyond holding onto the man’s body with his thighs as he’s being pounded into, when the position allows it. They never talk; it all somehow gradually came to a silent agreement, which Will is far from complaining about.

The thought of being unmade by something bigger than him is a pleasant escape, for as long as it lasts. In the meantime, it prospers in the act of letting his body he used in whatever way the Ripper sees fit, indifferent to the way Will’s body will hurt afterward. And Will doesn’t mind. He wants it to hurt. He craves the physical ache, the shameful reminder of his moral transgression.

There is also an undeniable thrill that comes with the lack of knowledge regarding the real identity of his unlikely lover. He lives in the ignorance of the man’s name, his face, his _voice_. All he knows is the monster that hides under the Ripper’s skin, and the ease with which it has learned how to ruin his body and mind beyond recognition, before sewing it up like one would repair a broken doll.

That is all he needs to know.

So he submits, and mimics the gait of the predator in this primal dance, angling his body to force him deeper inside of him, wondering how much more he can take until he breaks. His jaw wired shut by his own volition, he endures, he capitulates, and he succumbs to the overwhelming hunger.

He bits back a gasp when he is maneuvered on his belly and his hips are lifted up by strong arms, his hands bound behind his back. And then the Ripper plunges back inside of his body, and possesses him the way only a wild animal would know how.

* * *

And he falls, _oh_ , he falls.

* * *

He should have died.

Sometimes, he wonders what would have been the best outcome.

Will doesn’t remember much from what triggered the chain of events that put him in the Ripper’s grip. He remembers getting too close, too soon, foolishly acting on a hunch and stumbling upon one of the Ripper’s tableaux seconds after the victim took her last breath. He remembers the smell of blood, of death, and the hand surging from behind him, covering his mouth and stopping the potential scream that could have risen up his throat. The feeling of a syringe piercing the skin of his neck. And then, nothing.

He had woken up blindfolded and tied to a headboard, a soft mattress under his back, and had felt a presence around him followed by the sharp end of a knife against his body, gently grazing the skin. He remembers his fear blending into something else entirely, and reacting the wrong way. Moaning.

The Ripper had come to a stop, and Will had expected to be killed on the spot for his accidental vulgarity.

The predicted feeling of a knife slicing his skin had been replaced by a hand on his trembling thigh, and he remembers being gripped by an emotion very different from what a normal person wouldprobably feel. Upon noticing the lingering of the touch, undoubtedly a silent question aimed at him, a nod had been his only answer, the lack of fear emanating from him evident to both parties.

He had gasped the first time the Ripper had wrapped his hand around the most sensitive part of him. The hand of a _murderer_ , he had thought, the same hand that has inflicted pain and created beauty out of it, now fixated on giving him nothing but pleasure.

He remembers, as early as that, being taken apart by a creature of insatiable greed and wondering with dread if the Chesapeake Ripper, when all is said and done, is going to feast on his still-beating heart.

* * *

In an unexpected turn of events, the Ripper lets him go.

When the high of his climax starts to wear off, the daze is almost immediately followed by the reminder of who stands in front of him. He wonders in what form his demise is going to come and expects at the very least the return of the blade against his throat. It never happens.

The Ripper unties him, and Will lays sprawled on the bed, disoriented and sore, fucked out of his mind. So blissfully used, his body aching, sweating, his chest heaving with each breath.

When he is certain the Ripper has left, a silent permission to take back control of himself, Will undoes the blindfold just in time to crawl over the edge of the bed and empty the content of his stomach on the carpet. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, feeling tears gather in his eyes as his vision slowly clears and the ringing in his ears starts to wear off.

A few more seconds pass and he adjusts his clothes, for the Ripper didn’t bother tucking him back into his pants, and he feels the sudden urge to put as much distance as possible between himself and this place. His car is still where he left it, untouched, his phone forgotten on the passenger seat, blank.

The dogs greet him with their usual enthusiasm, but Will ignores them in favor of heading straight for the shower, itching to clean up the dried come that remains on his body. He scrubs himself until his skin is red and burning, and it feels like a fitting punishment. Maybe, if he rubs hard enough, he can cover all the marks that the Ripper left on his body and the reminder of how exactly they ended up there. Perhaps, if he hides them, he won’t have to think about how good it felt.

Because in the end, he knows he isn’t disgusted by the act itself, but by how much pleasure he found in it. The thrill of danger, of being used by a stranger, someone he doesn’t know the face nor the voice.

The knowledge of being touched by hands that have stabbed, sliced, strangled. _Killed_.

Outside, unbeknownst to him, the wendigo stands, watches, and delights in his shame.

* * *

The victim has been tied with red ribbons, his mouth kept open by white roses and belladonna, his lips now colored black by the deadly berries. Silenced by the very thing that ended up taking his life.

Will’s mouth goes dry as he pictures what the man must have felt, his heart accelerating and his pupils blown wide, the world starting to shift around him before it all came to a sudden end. He thinks of himself, of his own heart frantically trying to match the rhythm of the Ripper’s hand around his flesh in a myriad of vulgar sounds, echoing through his shattering reality seconds before his vision had turned white. And it had felt like dying, until the Ripper, in his cruel kindness, had brought him back from limbo and allowed him to live.

He does not need to take another look at the scene.

 _“_ The Ripper is mocking someone,” he informs Jack.

“His victim?”

 _Not the one you think_ , he almost says, and the thought barely feels like his own.

Despite how hard the Ripper seems to be trying to remind Will of that particular fact, he doesn’t need a trail of corpses to know that he himself shares a lot of similarities with the Ripper’s victims. He, too, is being subjected to the Ripper’s sadistic adoration and made into _something_ , with the notable difference that he did not yet find his way on the other side of a body bag.

A nod is the only answer Jack receives before Will leaves the agents to their work, and he spends the remaining of the day locked inside of his office trying to ignore the haunting clatter of hoofs wandering outside.

When he goes home later that day, there is an envelope carefully attached to his front door. It holds an invitation that smells faintly of myrrh and of imminent tragedy, politely requiring his presence at an address he does not recognize. The identity of the sender is too obvious to be mentioned on paper, and beyond the act of self-preservation that the lack of signature evokes, Will can see the bigger picture.

A nameless invitation, to an anonymous meeting. A place where he can leave behind the false pretenses of normality and indulge in what he has always denied himself. All of this at the hand of a stranger, who will undoubtedly keep his identity a secret.

He sees it as what it is: a disaster in the making, a way to complicate things even more than they already are. And, ultimately, a bottomless pit that threatens to pull him down if he makes the fatal mistake of bending over a little bit too much to evaluate its depth.

Will reads the letter again, and again, sitting on his porch with a beer and his dogs surrounding him in a semblance of protection. The thought of burning it crosses his mind, of watching the proof of his unconventional desires turn to ashes in front of his eyes. He knows it is futile; he’s tried getting rid of these thoughts before. They always come back.

Then, and only then, does he consider handing the letter to the FBI. He doubts they would find anything substantial on it, but he knows it is the right thing to do. For the security of many, as well as for the sake of his own mental safety.

The problem is, Will Graham is not known to do his sanity any favors.

* * *

The first time they meet again, Will hides a knife inside of the duffel bag.

If the Ripper knows, he does not act on it.

The blindfold originally was the Ripper’s idea. It was and remains a necessary security. The ropes that they use now, on the contrary, were Will’s addition. He picked them himself, an impulse purchase, synthetic over natural-fiber. For its strength, he had tried to rationalize upon buying them, all the while being aware of the rope burns it can easily cause.

He waits for the Ripper to arrive, the blindfold the only piece of clothing he wears and the ropes carefully laid on the bed for the man to decide how to use them.

When he feels the dangerous aura of the creature standing in front of him, he holds his hands out, wrists upturned, and swallows the remaining of his doubts.

* * *

From that day forward, it becomes both easier to deal with the insatiable want and harder to pretend he does not want it.

Will wishes it was the result of a complex blend of unconventional desires and various factors, explained by psychology and trauma, so that what he is suffering from can be explained by a carefully constructed reasoning. Instead, it is tragically simple.

He likes it.

He likes the feeling of being used by someone who could decide to snap his neck without any warning, of being possessed by a monster because, for just a moment, it appeases the other monster that made its home between his own ribs a long time ago. Perhaps it is the only way to keep it caged and satiated, by occasionally feeding it with the fantasies he had refused to indulge in for so long.

Every time, he promises himself he won’t seek _his_ touch again.

  
He always breaks the promise.

* * *

As if occupying his mind is not enough, the Ripper loves to mark his flesh.

With the security that the blindfold over Will’s eyes provides him, he tastes every part of his willing prey, licking and nipping at the skin until Will knows it has turned into every single shade of purple and pink. Only then does the Ripper seem satisfied with his newest work.

Following each encounter, Will stares at himself in the mirror of his bathroom until his state of ruin is burned behind his retinas. He takes into account each of the marks on his body, the only external remnants of the Ripper’s claim on him.

More than the knowledge of what they have done, he bears on his skin and inside of him the proof of the Ripper’s identity, while it ironically remains a mystery to himself. A mystery he could easily solve, with the legal consequences he could choose to attach to it. For a moment, he imagines an alternate reality in which the Ripper is found because of such a mark, and Will is paraded throughout the courthouse for the bite mark on his thigh or on his ass.

The Chesapeake Ripper, caught because of his teeth; a fitting end for a man who feasts on the flesh of others. And for Will, a trial that is as much his own, where he is being judged for his actions as well as his omissions. A fitting end for Will, too, the man who let a cannibal devour him in a more figurative way.

He trails his finger over an angry-looking mark around his nipple and gasps when he squirms at the sensation. The bile is quick to rise up in his throat at the hazy reminder of how it has ended up there, and at the hardness it provokes in his body.

And then, because his disgust and hunger are complementary in their existence, he takes himself in hand and strokes his flesh over the sink, releasing with a strangled moan followed by a sob that echoes through his empty house.

* * *

Fall turns into winter.

Will gets restless. His dreams are plagued with the memories of strong hands wandering on his skin, sweat dripping down the small of his back, his body bent in many ways as it stretches to accommodate the imposing girth within its walls. And the darkness, always there, the only friend he has.

It remains within the confines of his dreams until it doesn’t and it leaks into reality, and every little thing is an acute reminder of the way his body and mind are no longer his.

When he lays alone at night, he thinks about how the Ripper always fills him full until he chokes on his own moans, until he’s left boneless on the dirty mattress. He remembers the Ripper’s tongue probing inside of him, tasting and taking what little he has not taken from Will yet, bringing him to completion while he can do nothing but lay down and let himself be used.

He gets drunk on his own weakness, on the knowledge that his pleasure, dignity and life are being held between the hands of a monster who could crush him in an instant. When the predator gazes upon him, Will’s instincts should make him fight tooth and nail for his survival.

Instead, Will surrenders, submits, and bares his throat for the monster to bite.

He allows the Ripper to fulfill his craving, knowing that the sun will rise to witness a dull and miserable version of Will Graham, resenting himself for giving in so easily. And yet, like an addict, he cannot help but seek the only thing that gives him the pleasure he now needs to subsist. Perhaps the torments that follow are what make the experience even better. Like a sinner, he finds thrills in the knowledge that he is doing wrong while he is doing it. The repentance is only a painfully beautiful reminder of the pleasure he found in the immorality of his acts.

And Will is, as always, a willing participant of his own downfall.

Sometimes, he thinks about putting an end to all of this. Disappearing. He doesn’t even need to wonder if the Ripper would let him go, for his thoughts stop at the fact that he himself doesn’t want to sever the link that connects him to the monster. It has never even been an option.

He has tied himself to a creature that he imagines is adorned with sharp antlers, painted black to better blend in the forest that witnessed it take its first breath and that it is now cursed to haunt, with an insatiable hunger doomed to grow and never be fully satiated. Undoubtedly, an echo to his own craving, to the thing he is himself slowly being remodeled into.

Winter turns into spring.

He forgets what life without him felt like. So he drowns himself into the bitterness of his own resignation, born out of an existence he can’t remember.

And the Ripper rips, and rips, and _rips_.

* * *

Less often than he would like to admit it, he wonders why the Ripper keeps him alive. This little arrangement is dangerous for both of them. The logical choice would have been to kill Will on the very first night. A quick snap of his neck, a slice to his throat. He wonders how his blood would taste to the Ripper, and if the Ripper wonders the same.

Maybe his survival is the result of a monster’s curiosity. Maybe he takes pleasure in the slow torture of the man who was once supposed to put him behind bars. Or, for all he knows, the Ripper could have something bigger planned for him. Maybe it is a little bit of everything.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Will entertains the possibility that he is alive simply because he caught the Ripper’s attention and, in the privacy of his own home, gets off on the thought of his unorthodox lover whispering to him the exact reason why he has not found himself with a knife buried inside of his stomach yet, and how the Ripper might choose to display him, once Will exhausts whatever the man is getting out of this.

He could write an entire list of reasons why this is all sorts of fucked up.

But it is also the only time where he can allow his own monster to crawl out of his lungs for a breath of fresh air, only for a short time, before he is forced to hurriedly shove it back inside of him. Every time, he feels as powerful as he feels powerless, and he finds solace in the knowledge that a monster bigger than his own is tending to his perversions. Maybe, just maybe, if the monster takes care of it, Will won’t have to.

Later, when his wrists are tied behind his back and his knees are already bruising from the rough friction against the sheets, Will buries his face harder against the pillow underneath him and raises his hips to allow the Ripper to slide deeper inside of him. A submission, both literal and figurative as he offers his body for the creature to feast on it. He feels a warm breath and groans against his ear, the closest he knows he will ever come to hear the Ripper’s voice.

Depressingly enough, it is the most intimate he has ever felt during sex in a very long time, possibly ever. And it remains just that, even as his hair is harshly pulled back by a strong hand which causes his body to bend in an unnatural way, Will deprived of his sight and forbidden to express his needs apart from the occasional moans.

And then, instead of speculating on the reasons why the Ripper allows him to live, Will begins to think about the way the Ripper might choose to take his life. He feels hands on his hips while he is being taken from behind, the thumbs pressing at the bottom of his back, and he wonders what it would take for the Ripper to slide his fingers on his ribs and push his sides open until the bones crack.

* * *

The first time he begs is an accident.

He has noticed how The Ripper loves to make him squirm under his touch, and Will suspects that this enjoyment is made even stronger by the knowledge that he has been deprived of his own voice. The only thing he can do is endure, and bite on his tongue until he tastes blood.

There is a warm mouth on him, that started its slow and torturous journey by covering his thighs with bites, and gradually moved closer to his center, to where he aches the most. It avoids the place, the Ripper’s nose brushing against his navel, and Will feels his control slip. The words roll off his tongue before he can even stop them.

It feels like the only choice he has.

“ _Please_.”

He immediately stills, terrified of what he has just admitted. The Ripper’s mouth comes to a halt and soon moves away from his body, along with the strong hands that were holding his legs open.

For a second, Will is afraid that he has broken the silent agreement they had. In retrospect, it is a goddamn miracle he has managed to hold the words back for so long. He has grown tired of trying to deny that he craves every little thing the Ripper is willing to give him, be it pleasure or pain, but it is not enough.

When the Ripper’s hands return, they lift his legs up and settle them in the crook of his elbows, spreading them to give himself better access.

At the first breach of his body by the Ripper’s cock, he throws his head back and breaks the silence again, begging, imploring, as if learning again how to use his words to get what he wants, now that he can. Now that it is allowed.

The Ripper grants him everything he asks for, and Will loses himself a little more.

* * *

The second time he begs is anything but accidental.

* * *

Hannibal Lecter is, at first glance, not any different from most of the psychiatrists Will had the misfortune of meeting over the course of his life. He certainly has the appearance and attitude of another stuck-up snob that feeds on his own arrogance, born from an ability and an ease to dig into people’s minds.

The man’s face is unreadable, at least until Will notices that he is the one who is being read. And he does not like it one bit.

When he storms out of Jack’s office, unnerved by the way the stranger has seen right through him, a part of him is terrified of what would have happened if he had let Hannibal gaze into his eyes for more than just a few seconds.

Years later, upon reflecting on this, Will realizes that instead of avoiding the contact, he should have embraced it and looked into Hannibal’s probing eyes longer. Perhaps he would have seen the companion of his own monster staring back at him.

* * *

Nine times.

He shoots Hobbs nine times, and it is the easiest thing in the world.

Walking into the hospital after witnessing the man’s daughter nearly drown in her own blood, however, is not.

His anger and frustration are quick to manifest, awakened by the realization that no matter how much he can try to deny it, he has enjoyed killing Hobbs. But more than that, it is the first time that a part of what he hides deep inside has leaked into the real world and affected another. He struggles to shove it back inside of his chest, begging the monster inside of him to content itself with it. It doesn’t, and Will starts to see a crack in the feeble wall he had desperately been trying to build to hold back what slumbers within him.

Later, when his tied hands find a grip onto the Ripper’s body, he maneuvers him onto the bed and straddles his hips. The Ripper lets him, a permission most likely motivated by curiosity.

In the privacy of an empty home by the sea, the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below absorbing his distress, he positions himself as best as he can before lowering his hips, allows the Ripper’s cock to breach his entrance and slide back inside the tightness of his body.

He feels full. He feels _in control_ , and that is exactly what he needs.

For a moment, it soothes the voices imploring him to _see_ , and he remembers that the water outside is just that, and not Abigail’s blood pooling at his feet.

Will rides the Ripper until his thighs hurt, just to make sure he will walk with a limp the next day. His tied hands are rubbing against chest hair, his nails scratching the skin underneath until a hand wraps itself around his throat and _squeezes_ , stealing the air from his lungs and making his eyes roll into the back of his head. It is so many things at once, visceral, primal, rough, and everything he needs.

He rolls his hips with abandon until he loses all pretension of restraint and allows himself to be reduced to a bouncing mess, seeking release. From what, he does not know.

And then it is over, and the Ripper leaves. Will takes the blindfold off and steps to the balcony, holding tight onto it until there are wood splinters embedded in his hands.

It takes a minute for him to notice, but the salty fragrance of the sea is replaced by a strong metallic smell, and suddenly the sea looks black under the moonlight.

He blinks and just like that, everything reverts to normal. Water is just water again. But it takes the entire ride back home for the smell of blood to wear off.

* * *

“A peculiar concept, _folie induite_ , is it not?” Hannibal contemplates one evening while he sits close to the fireplace, his angular face framed by the flickering light of the flames feeding on the wood. Will stands with his back to him, his hands buried inside his pockets as he glances at the spines of the books in Hannibal’s vast collection.

The warmth caressing his back feels more human than the body of the creature that was pressed against him a few days ago. He does not need the reminder, but he gets it anyway.

“You overheard Alana and Abigail at the Hobbs house, didn’t you?”

Hannibal opts for a silent affirmation, cocking his head while his fingers toy with a pen. 

“One of the several subtypes of madness shared by two. Induced psychosis. It refers to the addition of new delusions in a previously psychotic patient, under the influence of another affected individual.”

“I am aware of what induced psychosis means, Dr. Lecter.”

“I assumed you were,” Hannibal replies. “I simply consider it a fascinating object of study.”

Will’s shoulders sag as he turns around, massaging the back of his neck. It has been a long day, and it might get longer if Hannibal is seeking to play charades.

“The study of a psychiatric syndrome implies the existence of a patient.”

“Indeed, it does,” Hannibal nods. “Induced psychosis is more complex than it appears to be at first glance. It is generally accepted that the one who holds the influence is in a position of dominance and imposes the delusion on another, with the assumption that the secondary person might not have become deluded if left to their own devices.”

Will’s gaze drifts to a charcoal portrait hanging over the fireplace mantel while he ponders the words, allowing Hannibal to go on.

“If the two parties are admitted to the hospital separately, then the delusions in the person with the induced beliefs usually resolve without the need for medication. Which begs a very obvious question.”

Hannibal’s words linger, as if giving Will the time to taste them, absorb them. He remains careful to hide the faint smile grazing his lips, which he knows Will cannot see.

“What happens when the syndrome in the new patient is not characterized by the addition of a new delusion, but the expansion of an already existing one?”

* * *

“Will you let me see your face before you kill me?” he inquires one night, the blindfold tight around his head. With the adrenaline now gone, his wrists throb with pain from the ropes while the Ripper’s seed slowly leaks down his thighs.

He cannot possibly imagine an outcome in which he makes it out alive. Whether by the Ripper’s hand or by the result of his own missteps, he can already taste the sweet aroma of his ill-fated failure to resist the grip of the monster dormant in his chest, and the subsequent mental and social ruin that he expects to experience.

Sometimes, he pictures himself getting lost in the woodlands, robbed of his senses under a charcoal sky, never to be found again. Walking until his feet bleed, eventually giving in to the creature on his trail.

When he’s fishing, his feet taking roots in the middle of the stream and anchoring him to the only place where his mind has ever felt safe, he wonders if he will meet his demise by drowning into a sea of his own perversions. He closes his eyes to ignore the floating corpses of the lives he could not save, and the ones that are doomed by his egoism.

And then there is a strong hand on his cheek, thumbing his lips, uncaring of how swollen and sore they are from the earlier depravity they were subjected to, and the thoughts go away with such nonchalance that it is nothing but terrifying.

Long fingers slide back inside the warmth of his bruised and tired body, lazily stroking until Will is reduced to a moaning mess, overstimulated and tender, and he tries to ignore the way his body willingly opens to him like it always does.

The question is forgotten, the words hanging in the air until they are devoured by the empty silence, condemned to remain caged in a house where Will will never set foot again. 

* * *

They find a body.

It lays on a small wooden boat, left to drift over the still waters of a lake surrounded by a dense mist that makes each of his steps feel like he is being slowly swallowed whole. One of the arms sticks out of the boat, touching the water and feeding the fishes below, slowly, one fragment of flesh at the time.

The eyes have been gouged out, replaced by a pair of candles that are still burning when the FBI arrives at the scene, alerted in the early morning by the owner of a nearby boat rental.

When Jack asks him if it is the Ripper’s work, Will watches the faint glow of the flames until they die out, the molten wax flowing down like tears on the corpse’s pale skin.

His silence says enough.

Jack does not ask twice.

* * *

“I should go,” Will declares, his finger absentmindedly scratching the paper label of the bottle of wine in his hands. It is a cheap wine, bought in a hurry on the way to Baltimore. He doubts Hannibal will drink it. “I’ve got a date with the Chesapeake Ripper.”

He debates telling Hannibal the truth. They have conversations. As a psychiatrist, he is not a stranger to the intricacy of the human mind and its potential deviances. He would understand.

Probably.

Maybe.

But because he is a coward, he flees Hannibal’s house, the wine a pathetic apology for his premature departure. He ignores Hannibal’s objection, his words feeling like someone dipping a toe into the water to test out its temperature, trying to see if Will would stay, upon being given a good enough reason. Will knows that he is not exactly known for his sociability, so he brushes it off as an old habit coming from a man used to mingle with the high society, and most likely raised to be the picture of the perfect host.

There is only one place where he aches to be, and it is not Hannibal’s kitchen.

“Enjoy the wine.”

* * *

That night, the Ripper is late.

Will resists the temptation of rubbing his thighs together, unwilling to give himself any sort of relief that doesn’t come from him. Without a single word spoken to him, he has been taught to receive pleasure from him only, for no one knows his body like the Ripper does.

Him, him, _him_.

It is quite beautiful, this dependence, he thinks.

It gnaws on his bones, devours his flesh, threatens to consume every part of him until there is nothing left. He feels like he is standing on a cliff doomed by the erosion process, through the whims of the water below. The Ripper’s destructive adoration is, in many ways, reminiscent of the unpredictability of the sea. The warm water cradles him in a pretense of safety while seeping into his lungs, and Will doesn’t try to fight it. He doesn’t even want to. He can breathe underwater, the Ripper taught him so.

When the Ripper finally does arrive, he doesn’t waste any time getting Will on his belly and into him with little care and attention. He holds him down with a hand shoving his shoulder into the mattress as he fucks him, slow but rough, every drag of his cock a pleasurable torture that Will never wants to end.

The Ripper sinks his teeth into Will’s neck like a wild beast would, claiming and marking its property, until he feels a drop of blood trickle down his shoulder blades. It hurts so bad that Will sobs, and it feels so good that he begs for more until his voice is hoarse. _Take it_ , his blurred mind supplies the thought for him, _take it all, it is for you_.

It seems to last forever, the Ripper exhausting his body and soul until Will can barely talk let alone think.

But he thinks, he thinks, he _thinks_ about how the Ripper has always been somewhat possessive, something that must come with the pride of remodeling him into a new being. He doesn’t need his eyes to know that the Ripper loves to watch him after the act, his body a mess, covered with semen, the place where they were connected puffy and red from the abuse and contracting from the loss of the only thing it truly craves.

This feels different. This is possessiveness at its rawest and most brutal meaning. There is nothing poetic nor beautiful about it. He knows his body will bear the marks for days, a fact that the Ripper tremendously enjoys, judging from the way he often runs the tip of his fingers over them until Will whines from the discomfort.

And Will always shamelessly awaits this moment. He yearns not for the marks, but for the acknowledgment from the Ripper that _he_ was the one to put them there.

To his surprise, it does not come. This time, the Ripper doesn’t linger and stay to watch the result of his work. As soon as Will goes limp after being released from his grip, the warmth of the Ripper’s body evaporates, leaving him a broken mess on the mattress.

His confusion quickly turns into the understanding that he is now alone in the bedroom. When the adrenaline finally wears off, Will is left with the fallout of the Ripper’s volatility and for the first time, he feels a different sort of emotion grip his body.

The flame inside of him has grown into a pyre, something that he has been feeding, more and more, until he feels like he cannot keep up anymore. An unfamiliar and insatiable hunger that makes him want to scream for the Ripper to come back. He wants to rip off the blindfold, to _see_. He wants to know why, why he is still alive, what makes him different from the other victims. What makes him different from the pigs.

But the Ripper is gone. He will come back, cause another crack in the mirror of Will’s soul, and leave again. The cycle will be repeated, leaving him to wonder, again and again, how long he can endure it all. How long he can survive the Chesapeake Ripper.

How long he can survive himself.

His body aches, so does his heart, and he shakes when he begins to realize what it implies. 

In the fallout of this horrific epiphany, he has never felt so alone.

* * *

When his mind starts to shatter, his meetings with the Ripper are the only thing keeping him grounded in reality. He starts seeking protection in the Ripper’s touch, finding comfort in the knowledge that a monster is taking care of him, protecting him from the ugly thing gnawing at his mind.

How pathetic he must look, holding for the last shreds of reality onto a serial killer that decided that he would make a better fuck toy than a meal.

He finds himself on a bed again, in a house he has never been in before and will never return to, from an invitation he doesn’t remember getting. The skin of his wrists is numb to the pain of the ropes tying him to the headboard, his knees spread wide and pushed back over his chest. Velvet is draped over his eyes, a gift left for him on his porch, weeks ago, the only limited communication they have outside of these secret meetings and the corpses left by the Ripper in his wake like little crumbs of bread. And Will, well, Will follows the crumbs, for he feels he will get lost if he does not.

Yet, it seems that he has not hit rock bottom yet, because there is something else he finds himself craving, the opposite of the abuse he has willingly subjected his body and mind to. The one thing that has been bubbling up inside of his chest for weeks. He suffocates, and he aches, until there is nothing left to do but plead for mercy. He knows he is losing himself in the only way he had always thought he would not.

And, like everything else, it feels like the only choice he has.

“Kiss me.”

And because the Ripper is, at his very core, a beautiful sadist, he does. He indulges him, knowing this is only going to bring Will deeper down the spiral of his own annihilation.

His lips taste like death, like dry thyme and the charred smell of Will’s burning love. They are rough when they claim him, even more cruel in their softness when they linger against his mouth in a mockery of tenderness, just enough to let Will imagine a world in which things are different. A universe in which the moral depravity that shapes their existence in this one is replaced by the gentleness of a normal life.

And then, the Ripper takes this burgeoning fantasy away from Will when he breaks the kiss, and this feels more forbidden than anything his twisted mind has ever conjured. His imagination, once again the cause of his personal ruin.

He wants to touch him, to run his hands over his face, but it remains another absurd longing. He is as tied up as he was on the day they met, on the day he offered his body, knowing his soul would soon follow, but unaware he would one day sacrifice his heart, too.

It is nothing but a bitter reminder of the moment it all started. Since then, many things have remained the same, and yet so much has changed.

Under the blindfold, there is yet another mirage, courtesy of his own slippery imagination. He can almost feel the sharp wind against his face, the void under his feet. Hands and lips feasting on his flesh, holding him suspended in the air. Them, only them, can decide to let go. The Chesapeake Ripper is, and has always been, the only warden of his fate.

And Will deliriously thinks, _yes_ , _please_ , _take me apart, and sink your teeth into my heart_.

* * *

Falling is, ultimately, not the problem.

The real cruelty that resides in falling, Will gradually comes to understand, is that once it begins, you can never predict how hard you will hit the ground until you do.


End file.
